


threads

by Cranon



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alcohol, Cat Rapport, Crack, Guns/Blasters, M/M, ren trying to be nice but it just comes off as bizarre
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 02:58:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7827685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cranon/pseuds/Cranon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Look.” Ren reaches for the sock and pulls a short, orange hair from its (tasteless, Hux has to admit, but entertaining) indigo and magenta stripes. “Evidence.” </p><p>Written for the following prompt: 'The only non-regulation item of clothing Hux wears is socks--he has an entire collection. Ren finds out.' (Plus some other prompts)</p>
            </blockquote>





	threads

**Author's Note:**

> written for @nonwal as part of @bygoneboy's kylux minifest.
> 
> featured colors are (in order of appearance): #ABA8A7, #C41A04, #171717, #4F14E3, #C90072.

“Ren, for the last time, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The offending article Ren has tossed onto his desk is of soft, smooth fabric, woven of finer wool than even his greatcoat. As socks go, it’s not that unusual – pale, warm grey with a delicate argyle pattern – but its presence is damning.

“I wasn’t aware we had colors in the First Order," says Ren. “What’s this one? Blood-of-your-enemies red?” He prods at the interlocking diamond shapes, red and black on the grey fabric. “Sounds about right for you.”

“Why are you so convinced it’s – that it could be mine,” Hux says, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.

“It was dropped by a hospitality droid on delivery rounds, in the officers’ hallway,” says Ren. “Close to your quarters. Not a coincidence.”

“That’s hardly evidence.” But Ren is distractible, and faced with imminent disaster, Hux falls back on the tried and true strategy of changing the subject. “Don’t pretend you’re the only one without sin,” he says. “What I want to know, Ren, is why you use so damned _much_ conditioner. You don’t even have that much hair.”

“The Knights of Ren do not use conditioner,” intones Ren, glowering. “We are anointed with sacred oils before every mission. And the ashes of our enemies,” he adds hurriedly, before Hux can finish rolling his eyes.

“You are aware we have cameras in the officer’s requisition office, are you not?”

Ren starts. “Hux, I don’t-"

“You _took_ Officer Unamo’s conditioner. Is it even possible for you to understand how rude that is? Did you know she has to get it by special order?” Ren had seemed in control of the situation when he entered the room, as if he had a plan. Now he’s fidgeting in place as pink spreads slowly down his cheeks. “It takes weeks to arrive,” Hux adds, watching Ren fray the edge of his cloak between nervous fingertips. “So. Anything to say for yourself?”

“I didn’t think anyone would notice,” mumbles Ren.

“In the future, be advised that you can _not_ just take whatever you want. If you feel that you need to special-order conditioner, you will have to request your own through commissary, like everyone else.”

“Understood, General,” Ren says to the floor. Then, after a pause: “Don’t you want to touch it?”

Hux nearly drops his datapad. “ _What_?”

“It’s – A really good conditioner, it’s done a lot for my –"

“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer,” says Hux. The whiskey in his corner cabinet is looking terribly appealing right now, but three hours remain in his shift.

“Fine,” says Ren, and pulls the helmet back on. Hux offers up a silent prayer of thanks. “Now. About your lost property.” Hux narrows his eyes.

“For the last time, it’s _not_ mine.”

“I don’t know. It seems like your style.” Ren’s voice is gentle, tinged with amusement, though it’s hard to tell through the vocoder. Possibly – hopefully – Hux is just imagining it.

“My _st-_ I don’t have a style, I have a uniform,” Hux snaps. “And what would you know about it anyway, you only wear black, and - You probably don’t even _wear_ socks. I don’t think you own any.” Ren reaches to pluck the sock from his desk, but Hux bats his hand away. “Leave me alone, you pest.”

“Very well,” says Ren, and – shockingly – leaves without further argument.

Hux scrubs at his eyes, struggles with his message list for a few minutes longer, then gives up and opens up a stack of reports that only need brief review.When the end of his shift finally and blessedly arrives, Hux is perhaps more generous with the whiskey than he ought to be.

The next day, he blames his headache – deservingly, he thinks – upon Ren.

 

* * *

 

 

As it turns out, Ren does not wear socks, at least not in the training rooms. Instead, he glides barefoot across the mat, moving smoothly through the full-body motions of lightsaber training routines with surprising grace and practiced ease. It’s strangely appealing to watch his single-minded focus on the movements – almost enviable, Hux thinks, before he catches himself.

Hux has pulled his greatcoat up to shield himself from view; he hopes it’s as obvious to everyone else as it is to him that he is only huddled in this darkened corner of the training atrium because his datapad’s backlight is failing and he needs to work. If pressed, he can point out the Stormtrooper special unit training going on in the far corner of the room as a valid reason for his attendance, but Ren is a far more engaging spectacle.

His duty dogs him, though, and an urgent comm about an environmental systems malfunction on Deck Three finds him back out in the hallway, explaining to a very strung-out Lieutenant Mitaka that yes, they _do_ have procedures in place for sealing off that quadrant, and he is perfectly capable of assigning an engineering team on his own, and –

“I knew I would see you here,” Ren says almost directly into his ear. “You were curious.”

Hux yelps and hurriedly switches off the microphone on his datapad. Ren is standing almost directly behind him, still barefoot – the reason he managed to steal up so quietly and without Hux noticing. His gym bag dangles off one shoulder, unzipped (and is that the bottle of stolen conditioner?!); his binder is slung over one arm. He must have run to catch up, Hux supposes, his precious lightsaber routines abandoned for the much more entertaining possibility of antagonizing his fellow commander. Typical. “Actually, I’m here on my own business,” Hux snaps, and turns to make off down the hallway.

Of course Ren follows him. Along the hallway, and when Hux ducks through the nearest door, Ren comes through the door as well. “What business,” he says, the amused lilt in his voice noticeable now that they’re in the contained quiet of the officers’ blaster range. “What business, then?”

Hux’s mouth flattens to a thin line. Ren is backing him along the line of firing lanes, too close and entirely too at ease. “I simply came to practice.”

“Yes, I see. With all of your gear.” Ren smirks at the greatcoat and datapad. “Have you even _seen_ a battlefield? Ever? Or were you trained like a - "

“Enough!” Hux shoulders off his greatcoat, slips his (very non-regulation, high-powered, fingerprint-encoded) blaster from his belt. The safety goes off with a little _click_. Ren looks darkly amused, but Hux holds his gaze with what he hopes is an icy stare of his own, extends one steady hand, and fires.

 _Pew! – pew! – pew! –_ he squeezes off three quick shots, narrowed eyes never leaving Ren’s face. Hux is aware without turning to look that they’re three perfect shots, dead center, in three separate lanes. Hux knows his skills – top of his class, broke six academy records in the simulations, ranked best shot in all the Finalizer's bridge crew - and for a brief moment he savors the wild fancy that even the Master of the Knights of Ren himself would be hard pressed to stand against him in battle.

It’s a foolish, childish thought, and Hux pushes it away, lowers the blaster. Ren is laughing a little, under his breath, as he gazes at the smoking targets.

Hux has had enough embarrassment for one day, and he shoves past Ren without a word, back out into the corridor. Ren – _Ren_ could tear the blaster from his hand with barely a thought. He won’t, though. Hux knows this, though he doesn’t know how, and he doesn't give it another thought. 

 

* * *

 

Hux submits a (faked) maintenance order each of the droids responsible for his laundry, and they’re replaced within a day. Yet it happens _again_ , barely three weeks later - and this time, when Hux steps into his quarters after a grueling series of back-to-back budget meetings, Ren is already there, clutching something small and brightly colored in one gloved hand.Hux’s gaze darts reflexively to the whiskey cabinet, but he masters himself. “Ren.”

“General.” Ren reaches out mechanically and drops the sock into the URGENT bin, upsetting a stack of reports.

“Did you need something,” Hux says, heart sinking. Ren seems determined. There may be no getting out of it this time.

“I’ve found something that belongs to you.”

If only he had the damned mask on, Hux thinks, Ren might not sound so smug. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ren, we’ve been over this-"

“Look.” Ren reaches for the sock and pulls a short, orange hair from its (tasteless, Hux has to admit, but entertaining) indigo and magenta stripes. “ _Evidence_.”

The first sock had been clean – fresh from the dryer, and dropped in Ren’s path by happenstance. But this one was almost definitely pilfered from the laundry, because it’s crumpled, and a few orange hairs still cling to the patterned surface. Hux imagines Ren stalking through the Finalizer’s laundry in his forbidding black cloak, casting about for the most embarrassing possible sock in the week’s laundry. It’s insane, even by Ren’s standards, and therefore he’s almost certain that’s exactly what happened. “That’s not from me,” Hux says warns him.

“I know it’s not yours,” Ren says, holding the hair up between gloved fingertips. “You’re much less striped.” Before Hux can parse this baffling logic and tell Ren to leave again, Ren is leaning over the desk to peer around the filing cabinet behind it. He stops short with a little “Oh!” of surprise.

“Hush, now,” Hux warns him, resigned. “Don’t wake her.”

“It’s a _cat_?!”

“Yes, she is. What did you expec-"

“I thought you were keeping. I don’t know. A slave, or something.”

“What!” sputters Hux. “Ren, what in _hells?_ ”  

“-because she likes treats,” Ren barrels on, unperturbed. “But hates when you don’t listen. You’re bad at listening, by the way.”

Hux doesn’t have the emotional willpower to confront this hypocrisy to Ren. “Slavery is illegal,” he says, halfheartedly.

“So are superweapons. What’s her name?”

Ren has settled down onto the floor by the filing cabinet, and despite Hux’s efforts Millicent is awake now, squinting curiously up at Ren. “She’s called Millicent,” Hux says, silently daring Ren to make some remark about the name, but he’s too enthralled to comment, watching Millie stretch and blink awake.

Hux opens the corner cabinet again, this time not after whisky but the bag of cat treats he keeps there, out of Millie’s reach. Now that Ren has woken her up, Hux thinks, it’s his responsibility to offer her something by way of apology for bringing the overgrown child into her room in the first place.

“Don’t take it personally if she doesn’t warm up to you that fast,” Hux calls over his shoulder. “I’ll bring you some treats; that might catch her interest, but she doesn’t really like people.” He is stymied by indecision, but eventually settles on the small round treats that the label claims taste like some kind of gamebird. Hux has never tried them, but they smell – to him, mildly atrocious, but to Millie hopefully appealing.

“I don’t know what you meant,” Ren says. Hux turns, horrified, to find Millicent insistently headbutting Ren’s knees and nuzzling his outstretched hand. His glove lies, forgotten, on the floor. Ren looks up at Hux. “She’s a purring machine. You said she doesn’t like strangers?”

“Traitor,” Hux mutters, and hands over the treats.

Ren offers them to her one by one, in his outstretched hand. When the treats are gone she chirps curiously and sniffs his fingertips. “Pleased to meet you too,” Ren says back. Millie taps at the discarded glove with one paw, and Ren drags it back and forth across the floor, watching her tail twitch.

“You’d be better off giving her a sock,” Hux says, before his brain can stop him. “She likes them more.”

Ren grins at him. “I _knew_ -“

“Yes, yes, you’re a mind reader, there’s nothing you don’t know,” Hux says, suddenly exhausted. “Just – you two seem to get along well, come and pick something she’d like.”

“So many colors,” Ren says, when Hux has finally opened the drawer that holds his sock collection. It’s a characteristically inane comment, but Ren looks truly captivated. He pulls out one of a pair of dark gray socks with black stripes, balls one up and tosses it to Millicent, who darts after it with animated glee.

“I’m shocked you don’t have them monogrammed too,” Ren says, glancing back at the array of colors. “Or your whole name. Imagine trying to fit Ar-mi-tah-gee or however it's said-"

“Armitage is an _honorable_ name!” he retorts.

“It’s a ridiculous name,” says Ren, even more flippant now that Hux is blushing furiously. “It suits you.”

It’s no matter, thinks Hux; the information is public record anyway, anyone with any real clearance can find it, and it was a juvenile insult in the first place, and – “That’s awfully rich coming from someone who goes by _Kylo Ren,_ ” he says hotly. It’s a stupid argument and he shouldn’t be wasting his time with it – with Ren – at all, but Ren is in his space, and Ren _will_ regret this. “Or should I call you Solo?” Hux sneers. “No, that’s not quite right. It’s _B-“_

“ _Shut up_!” Ren is on his feet, his face darkened over like stormclouds on the horizon. Hux realizes he’s gone much too far. Even worse, Ren is between him and the door. “You don’t know,” Ren growls. “What it’s like. To take a gift like that and have to – Throw it right back – “

“Ren.” Hux takes a deep breath, fighting down the bitter taste of admitting his mistake. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” Ren freezes like a cornered animal, ready to flee. “It was wrong of me and it won’t happen again,” Hux says, hoping it rings true. He’s not lying, but Ren’s hunched, shifty posture is making his voice uneasy. Ren eyes him, wary.

“They meant well, Ren,” Hux says, after a long quiet.

Ren glowers. “Don’t.”

He can’t hold the expression, though, when Millicent begins to twine enthusiastically around his ankles, begging for attention. Ren gives in, and in a few minutes he’s sprawled on the floor again, bouncing the sock across the room with the Force for Millie to chase. It’s remarkable how quickly she seems to dispel Ren’s frustration.

Hux sits gingerly down beside him. “Did you ever have a cat? Back on - Home.”

“No.” Ren floats the sock in a little circle and Millie trips on herself running after it, springs up and swipes it from the air with a delighted chirp.

“Ren?”

“Hm?”

Hux crosses and uncrosses his legs, then folds them up to sit cross-legged. “Do you really think my name is ridiculous?”

“It’s definitely unusual.” Hux watches Millie’s claws catch in the sock and pull loose a few loops of thread. “But it’s very. You, in a way.”

“Thanks? I guess.” The sock will be a raggedy mess by the time Millie’s done with it. This occurs with such frequency that Hux has made up a commissary request form template for his sock orders; mentally, he queues one up behind the day’s urgent mail.

“It does suit you. Did you pick it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. Hey, Hux?” Ren glances over, dark eyes curious again, unguarded. “If you chose it – why do you flinch when I say it?”

Hux averts his eyes. “I chose poorly. Long story.”

“Some other time, then?”

“Some other time.” Ren pulls the torn-up sock back to him with the Force and lets go, dropping it into Hux’s lap. Millicent mews in protest but Ren scratches behind her ears, murmurs a quiet word of apology. “I’ll come back,” he promises, but he’s gone before Hux can even wish him well.

By design or accident, Ren leaves his mask behind. It’s still there in the morning – staring menacingly from the center of his desk – but when Hux gets back at the end of his day, the mask is gone.

“Did Ren come and get his helmet, then?” he asks Millie, but she just blinks at him, slow and inscrutable.


End file.
